


'when i desire you a part of me is gone.'

by notjustmom



Series: "You remember too much..." [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 08:28:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13384017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: a bit of the boys in two verses.





	'when i desire you a part of me is gone.'

"John."

Watson always started when I called him by his given name, his breathing changed as if I had kissed him, not merely called him by his name, the name I always whispered as he fell asleep in my arms. But to say it in our sitting room in broad daylight, seemed scandalous to his ears. He blushed furiously and cleared his throat.

"Sherlock?"

And I found myself moving towards him, then falling to my knees in front of him and resting my head against his legs, not quite understanding until he hesitantly rested his strong fingers in my hair, and we both stilled for a moment, listening for any sounds that would make us separate quickly, and again I wondered at how this love of ours could be thought wrong.

 

"I have come to the conclusion that every time I think of you, desire you, I lose a bit of myself." He looked up from his laptop and blinked at me.

"No, it's fine - it's more than fine. I just never believed that it would happen to me."

"What would?" He got up from his chair and moved over to me, where I had crashed on the couch hours earlier, as if dazed.

"That someone could cause - I don't know, how to explain it precisely -"

 

"Sandstorms."

"Hmm?"

"When I served in Afghanistan, the winds would turn on us, nearly bury us if we weren't moving fast enough - when you look at me in that way, your voice drops and you speak my name; it recalls the feeling I experienced when all I could feel was the sand hitting my face, all I could hear was the wind, all other voices were lost - it was terrifying, but at the same time, peaceful somehow. I thought I would be lost and then a hand would find mine, and I was once again turned right - I felt lighter as if I had lost some part of myself, and yet -"

"Yes, like that, John, very much like that."

 

"I find that when I think I have lost something essential of myself - that's when you bring me back, your love - it's ridiculous."

"Tell me." He had tucked himself around me, as if by being closer he could return something to me that I had lost, and had wrapped his fingers around my wrists. "Tell me, Sherlock."

I feel silly saying this out loud even to him, especially to him, but slowly, it comes out. "You, or your love, I suppose is somehow filling in those spaces, those holes..."

"Like spackle?"

I laugh, and he presses up to look at me. "Precisely like spackle, some days I think you are the only thing that holds me together, John."

 

He shakes his head at me, and takes my face in his hands, gently tracing the tracks of tears that have fallen unbidden. "I am astonished, Sherlock, that I could mean so very much to you."

"Are you really, John?"

He shook his head again. "No, I suppose not so very amazed, as you are as essential to me as the spring breeze, the sunlight and the stars as evening falls."

"You are a poet, John."

"Only for you, my love." He cleared his throat and kissed my forehead. "I wish we could be like this always, but I fear it is nearly tea time." And no sooner had he spoken the last word, we could hear our landlady's shoes coming up the stairs. I rose, adjusted my clothing, and called out, "Come in, Mrs. Hudson; ah, honey for our tea, how very splendid."


End file.
